Aperture
by Batwynn
Summary: A Frostiron Victorian AU/crossover/mash up with Sherlock Holmes. A man known as the Great Detective loses something he didn't know he even had, and a man turns blue at the first signs of trouble is the only one who can help him. The trouble is, he's the cause for all the detective's problems.


It all began with a high-pitched sound from the upstairs floor of the house. Everyone who heard it described it as a sort of tea kettle noise that went on for hours at a time. The thing was, there was no where upstairs to boil a kettle and, in fact, there was never anyone up on that floor when noise was heard.

The house became noticeably more dangerous when the members of the family started to fall ill. At first it was believed that those who spent the longest time at home were falling to some sort of illness by close quarters. But it soon became apparent that the sickness seemed to target specific people, rather than those who lived in poorer conditions, such as the maids. The first one to start showing signs of becoming ill was the head of the family, the grandfather. He was working hard at the factory, still running the family company, when he fainted quite suddenly. His staff said he went pale, pointed out the window with a gasp, and toppled to the floor. He became bedridden after that, and night by night his condition only seemed to grow worse. He lingered on, however, clinging to life even as everything fell apart around him.

The family's final night in the residence was on April 9th, 1915, when their stay was ended abruptly by the death of everyone remaining in the house. The only survivors were those who made it outside before the doors snapped shut behind them.

"What can we do?!" the woman cried out softly, trying to shield both her daughter's eyes and cover her ears at the same time. But there was nothing that could block out the screams coming from the house, or to hide her fear from the children.

"Charles, please... _what_ do we do?"

"We should... perhaps we should contact someone," Charles said, pulling his sister and her daughters away from the house. The children buried their faces into their mother skirts, and started to cry. Everyone jumped and Charles let out a startled grunt when the night suddenly fell silent once more.

"Is it over?" one of the little girls whispered.

"I believe it—"

The sound began again, and what was once fascinating to the family, now sent a shiver of terror throughout their bodies.

"Who would we call upon," his sister whispered, "for something like this?"

Charles clenched his hands into trembling fists, staring hopelessly up at the doors which lay between himself and his now silent family.

"I believe they call him the 'Great Detective'."

"A _what_?"

"A hound."

"Just, 'a hound'?"

"Yes, sir, a hound."

"Really, Jarvis, one would think they would say more. Especially when they are paying me quite so much."

"I'm afraid they were rather vague about it, Mr. Stark. Perhaps with good reason?"

Anthony scowled across his desk at the man and spun his fountain pen between his fingers. "What possible reason could they have to withhold information? Nothing good, I assume."

"Then, perhaps not," Jarvis admitted, placing a calling-card tray on the corner of the desk, "shall I send a boy back to inquire further?"

"No, no. Don't waste the shilling," Anthony dismissed, waving a hand, "I shall see to it myself tomorrow afternoon."

"Sir, you meet with the board tomorrow."

Anthony squinted at him, trying to recall this important information. When nothing came of it, he asked,"I do? What for?"

"About the funding for your work, I believe. Mr. Stane has been rather outspoken about where the companies money has been going, as of late."

"Obadiah is plotting something, I can feel it. Something unkind..."

Anthony returned to scowling down at his paper, the notes now covered in ink from his constant fidgeting with the pen. He gave the paper a furious scribbling before balling it up and throwing it into the fire. Just as he was thinking about a nice night cap, or three, someone rudely rang doorbell.

"Who the bloody hell is calling at this hour?" Anthony called out to his butler's already retreating back. There was no answer but the sounds of the door opening and a soft, but urgent sounding conversation. It was several minutes later when his butler returned, interrupting Anthony who already grown bored of eavesdropping and started to doodle.

"An urgent matter, sir," Jarvis announced, "a young man in a rather difficult situation."

"How difficult?" Anthony asked, twirling his pen once more, "tomorrow difficult, or handle in one night difficult?"

Jarvis gave him a tight smile, which was the strongest proof that something _was _terribly wrong.

"His entire family just passed away under mysterious circumstances."

Anthony's pen stilled, spilling ink down his hand. He dropped it on the desk and stood. "I shall fetch my coat."

Twenty miles away, a man was reading a new novel by his favorite author —who he had a sneaking suspicion was actually a woman— when his body shuddered harshly. Really, he just wished to ignore it, that icy chill that tickled down his spine when something was awry. But, if he did, it tended to get worse and worse until his body actually turned blue. Such was his curse, and so, with a frustrated grunt, he dropped the book down and went to find his brother.

"Thor!" he called down the hallway, "Thor, it's happening again, we must go out."

"Now?! I just finished running the bath."

"This is a bad one..."

A shock of blond hair popped out from a door, an aggravated face proceeding it. "You always say that, Loki. Just because you dislike what happens to you does not mean we can run out after every cat stuck in a tree."

Loki snarled and stomped down the hall, kicking the door open wider without a care of his brother's state of undress.

"You will learn to believe me when I say 'bad'." He thrust his hands up into Thor's face, startling his brother back a few steps. They had already turned a dusty blue, and the first hints of white scars were crawling their way across his body. "As much as I may loath this... _condition,_ and would rather save myself even the smallest hint of this disgusting change, this is the fastest I have seen it manifest to this day. This means _something bad_."

"Bad," Thor repeated, his scowl dropping for concern, "brother, I am sorry. I know you dislike it, but to have said that you—"

Loki interrupted, waving a blue hand at him, "we don't have time for apologies. Something is horribly wrong, and I believe it's happening on Baker Street."

"When did it start?" Anthony asked the younger man. What was his name again? Clarence? Clyde? Donald?

"About three months ago, sir. I was sitting with my father discussing business when a terrible shriek came from above us."

"A shriek, you say? Like a lady's scream?"

The man shook his head. "No, no. It was higher, more unnatural, and it went on for a long while. Even when we went to go find the source, it seemed to allude us and no matter where we went it would sound from somewhere else."

"What does any of this have to do with the murder?"

They had been walking rather fast at this point, when the man stopped abruptly. Anthony paused when he heard the footsteps behind him falter, turning back around to see the man tearing up. A scowl instantly formed on his face. He was not equipped to handle such a situation, usually Jarvis dealt with the emotional side of their work. The 'human' side, the butler always said.

"If you had seen it, sir..." The man began, hastily wiping his eyes, "we were all sitting down for a late supper when it started again. Well, nearly all of us. Grandfather was upstairs resting, since he's been Ill for so long."

"There was an illness?" Anthony interjected swiftly.

The man nodded and continued, "everyone got a little ill over the past few months, he more than the rest of us. But, nothing other than the sound had happened in the house... until tonight."

"What hour were you having your supper at?"

"Nearly eight o'clock, sir. It had been a long day, and father was late at work. My sister came over earlier, to visit and stayed to eat. Ever since her husband passed away, she has—"

"_Supper_, what happened at supper?" Anthony interrupted again, mentally waving away the useless information and urging him to go on with the important stuff. The facts.

"Well, we had just sat down to eat when the sound started. Father was most upset, as I said, It had been a very long day. So he... well he went upstairs."

"And?"

The man grew pale, his fingers clutching at the rim of his bowler. "Then he screamed, and the ceiling shook so much some of the chandlers broke."

"_Fascinating_," Anthony breathed.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing, go on."

"Well, I... I was just about to go up after him when it appeared."

Anthony inched closer, his body thrumming with excitement. This was the stuff, this was why he began his work. For things that had no other name but 'it'.

"What did it look like?"

The man glanced around them before looking back at Anthony nervously. "Perhaps I should tell you in private, I would rather not be overheard."

"Of course," Anthony relented, his patience already waning, "please, show me the way to your house."

"Ah, well, we can't go there, sir. The doors still won't open, and I don't think... we would be safe."

"Fine. Find us a place to speak, and quickly. Time is of the essence in these sort of matters."

"Y-yes, sir," the young man stammered.

He lead the way, once more finding a sense of urgency. Anthony followed him for a few streets before finally asking him what his name was. It was Charles. He had been close, by one letter at the least.

"Brother, I do not see anything afoot down my end."

"_You_ wouldn't," Loki muttered, peering around the street corner from a small alleyway. They had avoided the streetlights on their way over, and were now well hidden while they waited for the 'event'. Loki was feeling the need to be more careful than usual, considering how powerful the warning was this time. Even with gloves and a mask, he would rather not risk someone seeing his accursed skin. He could already feel the cold creeping across his chest, and his only hope of stopping it from spreading further was to amend what had gone wrong. Something was afoot on Baker Street, just not _yet_.

"Brother—"

"How, pray tell, does the eldest brother find it in himself to whine quite so much?"

Thor closed his mouth, falling into a nearly tangible funk. Loki rolled his eyes to the heavens and settled in, what he hoped would continue to be, silence.

The street was quite, the sort of lull before a scream. That deep breath as you take in the horror, and the last moment before you lose your mind. Something horrific was coming, because this breath was long, and the silence maddening.

Anthony had not wished to meet the man's sister, or any of his living family members for that matter. In fact, he would have rather not spoken to any of them, and gone straight to the heart of things. The mystery was so much easier to crack without all those emotions spilling out everywhere. At least it had been manageable until they both started crying, nearly sending Anthony back onto the street, simply to escape the bloody noise of it all.

He wasn't heartless, no, Anthony simply preferred his company a little quieter. Hence his usual cases revolving around murders, and spending most of his time alone with the body and all its delicious mysteries. Dead bodies did not cry, or wail, or blow their noses.

Anthony stared at them, biting his tongue in a feeble attempt to keep his not-so-polite thoughts to himself.

_Good god, that hanky simply can not hold anymore snot, It has long since reached its maximum capacity for absorbing liquids._

He cleared his throat and interrupted yet another loud sniffle from the sister,"would you mind, terribly, if we got to the point? I would rather not have Scotland Yard called in before we know precisely what we are dealing with."

"Of c-course, sir," Charles began again, daubing at his eyes, "we were all sitting down for supper, when—"

"Yes, I know _this_ part. Describe the entity that appeared before you."

"Oh..."

Anthony's eyes narrowed. That was the 'oh' of a man with no answer. "You did not see it, did you?"

Christopher, or whoever, shook his head and glanced away. It took all of Anthony's effort not to throttle the young man senseless.

"What _did_ you see, then?" he asked, attempting to keep his voice less venomous than usual. They did just lose their family, after all.

The man shuffled a little more, looking horribly awkward, before his sister answered.

"All it took was a blink of an eye, really, and they are gone," she said softly, her eyes widening as she remembered. "One moment Timmy, _oh_... Timothy, was sitting next to me looking as confused as I felt, and the next moment he was gone. The chair... his chair was on the floor as though he simply toppled over. But he wasn't there, and It was not until we heard more screams that... we knew..."

"That's when I took charge," Charles said, picking up the slack, "I grabbed my sister and Silva and Betty and pushed them right outside. I was just turning back to help everyone else out when the door slammed shut."

Anthony picked at his lower lip as he absorbed this information. Something that moved fast, a physical form of some sort, to be able to drag people away, and then there was the doors and that sound. He needed to hear that sound.

"And you could not open them?" He prompted, focusing on the nervous man.

"No, sir. They were stuck fast."

"And the shutters? You said they were also closed up?"

The man nodded, glancing at his sister in confusion.

"You see, that is a queer bit. Were they open before you all sat down for supper?"

The man frowned, looking down as he tried to remember. His sister gave him an exasperated look and addressed Anthony, "Oh, really! Of course they were open, Natasha hadn't made her rounds yet, since she had been preparing for our late supper."

"Natasha?"

"The maid," she replied, "one of three, actually. Oh..." Her eyes grew watery again. "She must be..."

"Deceased," Anthony finished for her, going back to pulling on his lip. "Perhaps, but the _real_ conundrum are the shutters."

"Sir?"

"The shutters."

"Why... are they important?" Charles asked slowly.

"Because they are a part of the outside the house, meaning one must lean out to close them, and very much doubt the entity went around and closed everyone of them individually. Does that mean the house and the being are one, and if not, that really begs to question if the creature can go outside of the house, and if the whole of London is in danger."

His speech was greeted with a stunned silence from the other two, and he pouted a little. Really, he needed a better audience, that revelation was at least gasp worthy.

"Just, bring me there," he groused, "I shall have to see this house for myself."

Anthony was standing, arms crossed, feet spread apart, in front of a house that he knew had four dead bodies inside. Possibly more if one counted all the maids and the butler. So, eight bodies, to be exact.

The detective gathered the facts:

_A late supper, a busy house. If the maids did not have time to close shutters, perhaps the outside lamps were also left unlit._

Anthony glanced up at the two lamps on either side of the door. Both were bright and cheery, and so _very_ disconcerting.

_The shutters are now closed, lamps clearly lit. _

_Something was controlling the house, and hopefully the house is keeping it contained. _

_I don't want another 'tooth fairy' incident, that was unforgivable nonsense and terribly messy._

The facts all added up to one simple thing, everything happened in or around the house. With the exception of the grandfather and his fit at the factory, which was the only thing out of place thus far. That and the shutters, were the keys to this mystery. Only, Anthony did not know what lock they fit just yet.

The doorway looked ominous as he approached it, which was ridiculous considering the bright lamps glowing on either side. But somehow, the red painted wood —that was undoubtably meant to be bright and cheerful— still managed to look like congealed blood. He tried the door without thinking, his only expectation was to find it as stuck as the man had said it was. Only, as soon as he touched the handle, it swung inwards, and a blast of stale smelling air hit Anthony in the face. It felt as though he had just opened a tomb, rather than the door to a family home.

The inside was pitch black. The sort of black that made its own sound, like the static in the air before a lightning storm. He stared into it, captivated by the absolute nothingness of it, and it wasn't until he heard soft echo of voices, that he felt the first seeds of doubt. Because they were dead, all of them, because Charles had heard and seen it happen.

For once in his life, the Great Detective hesitated. "Perhaps we should—"

Long, pale arms breached the darkness and fell across his shoulders. They were too long, with far too many joints, and Anthony could feel the cold flesh through his clothes. He turned his head enough to see their terrified faces behind him, before he was pulled inside.

The door closed with a snap, the lamps went out, and a high pitched screech filled the air like a call of victory.

The first thing Anthony did was reach out to grab at something, anything to anchor him in that perfect darkness as he was pulled farther and farther into the house. He needed to keep his bearings, he _needed_ to shake off the arms gripped tightly around his body.

His fingers clutched at what felt like a small table, and he held on tightly until the arms jerked him away from it. Getting desperate, Anthony started to claw at the walls as they moved on. His nails broke against the wallpaper, but he ignored the pain and clung to anything he could find. Every door frame and bookcase was a chance. In the end, his efforts were futile, his grip made worse by the blood smeared across his fingers. And still, the arms pulled him onward.

It was no longer quiet, the entire house was filled with noises. Each room Anthony was dragged past was filled with... things. Shuffling things, whispering things, giggling things. His struggle had a great audience, and he was finally, absolutely terrified.

It wasn't until he fell to the floor, and let himself be dragged along that he was set free. It was as though with his resignation, came his freedom, and his initial instruct to run was dampened down by the realist part of his mind. Anthony had no idea where he was inside the house, or if he was even _in_ the house anymore. Not to mention the entire building seemed to be filled to the brim with god knows what. So, rather than fleeing, the detective stood up, arms in front of him, ready for a fight. He may be stranded in the inky black, they may have him surrounded, but he would take some with him before he died.

"**You are not the one we seek**," came a voice of many voices. The room, or what he thought might still be a room, reverberated with the sound. He found himself vaguely wondering if the doorway had lead to somewhere else entirely, and the furniture had been some sort of cruel joke to give him hope.

"I did not _intend_ to be dragged in here," he replied, more calmly than he felt. "That would be on you."

Thousands of things, or one, hissed, and Anthony reminded himself not to taunt the evil.

"**How is it you entered here? The gateway should open to only one!**"

"The door? It opened on my touch, yet I am not the one you're looking for, yes?"

"He should be punished," came a deep voice from his left.

"No, cast him out," came another from across the room.

A child like giggle interrupted the second speaker. "Amuse us, and punish him."

Anthony spun round every time a voice spoke, his jaw tightening at his future prospects.

Fact: He had confirmation of different entities, unless this one argued with itself.

Fact: He was not what they wanted, and they seemed rather disappointed by that.

Fact: More of them were for his 'punishment', than not.

Conclusion: He was in _trouble_.

"I must be here for a reason," he blurted out, turning back to where he thought the larger of the voices had come from. "If the door only opens for one, and I am not this 'one', it stands to reason that I must be connected in some way."

Silence, perfect silence, greeted him after he spoke. If it wasn't for the mere presence of them all, he might of thought he was alone. He _wished_ he was, because even darkness can be fought with light, a man can be brought down, a weapon disarmed. But these things, these he had no knowledge of.

"_Bait._"

Another giggle. "Bait!"

"It is bait..."

"**Bait.**"

Anthony only had a second to process this, a second too short to start running. His chest ached, suddenly, as though the air had been sucked from the room and when a light breached the dark around him, he took his chance to look down at himself.

Something claw-like protruded from his chest and trailed off outside of the pool of light. He could only stand and gape at it in disbelief that such a thing had happened, to _him_ of all people. Still, there was nothing more than the ache, until the black claw curled and pulled something from his chest.

Then, Anthony screamed.

"No..."

"You heard it!"

"_No_, Charles," she said with more finality.

He flung an arm at the closed doors and snapped back, "you just heard—"

"_Yes_, I heard the scream, no, I do not think we should call anyone else!"

Charles gave her an exasperated sigh and ran a shaking hand down his face. "We cannot simply leave it, our family was murdered!"

His sister rose from where she had sat on the curb, and crossed her arms. "Who is there left to call, brother? How many more 'Great Detectives' are you willing to lead to their deaths?"

"I'm not dead, just yet."

Both brother and sister squawked, and Anthony gave them a dull wave.

'Disheveled' was the polite term to describe his current state, and if one was not feeling particularly polite, his looks could also be described as 'hellish'. He certainly _felt_ hellish, which was appropriate for what he had just experienced, and he was already wincing with anticipation at the torrent of questions sure to come. Any moment now...

"You're _alive_!"

"We heard a scream, but—"

"Did you see anyone? Did anyone survive or—"

"Are you alright? You look a bit—"

"_Hellish_?" Anthony interrupted with a weak smile. Both fell silent instantly, waiting for him to continue. Only, he wasn't sure what to say. Everything had become a sort of foggy blur since he left the house. All he knew was that there was _something_ inside, it was impatient, and his chest ached something awful.

All he really wanted to do was go home, drink those three night caps —he was now considering the entire bottle— and sleep. But, two hopeful faces stared back at him, and he was never very good at handling disappointment in any shape or form.

"There is something in there, but sadly, I did not see any sign of anything living," he paused, and added, "or dead, for that matter."

"But..." The sister began hesitantly, "how can this be? They should still be in there... in some way or another."

Anthony pulled his coat tighter around his body, once more forcing himself to ignore the slowly receding ache. "It was too dark to see anything. I would suggest we sleep on it and regroup in the morning to discuss our further Involvement with the house."

"Ah, yes, of course. Tis late," Charles said guiltily.

Anthony looked them both over, far too exhausted to care for their varying states of worry. Not that he cared much to begin with, but he really did need to lay down soon. "I... shall be off then. Meet me here tomorrow, by noontime."

They set off on their separate ways, with a surprisingly sparse amount of chatter from his clients. Perhaps they sensed his need for a drink, or were too stunned and disappointed by his lack of discovery in the house.

He was disappointed in his lack of memory from the place. It was all dark, some voices just out of hearing range, and then a light. Anthony glanced down at the bloody hand that was not clutching his coat around him, and mumbled to himself, "Jarvis will pry, as always."

He had already resigned himself to the home care he was sure to face as soon as his butler saw him. Jarvis always took charge in these situations, something about previous medical school or war doctoring, Anthony could not recall at the moment.

In fact, he was so lost in his musings, he did not notice the two men approaching him at fast speeds. The only reason he paid them any attention at all, was because they attacked him rather suddenly.

"Excuse me?!" He snapped, elbowing the bigger one in the head as the man tried to wrap his massive arms around him. The smaller one was much more slippery, and moved behind Anthony as quick as a dancer.

"I am not in the mood for this," Anthony groused as he hook both hands behind the head of his assailant, and flipped him over his shoulder, and the man hit the ground with the most dignified squeak he had ever heard. Dignity or not, Anthony moved to kick the man in the face when a white moon mask slipped away to reveal blue skin.

Now, he had seen all sorts of things, and skin colors were never so surprising to him as they seemed to be to others. But he had also never been in a house filled with dark evil things, been attacked, and attacked again by someone with blue skin, all in the course of a single evening. It wasn't a good time for something new to be introduced.

"You better be human or I will not stop a single kick," he warned, still not able to bring himself to do it.

"I assure you," a drawling voice came from those blue lips, "I am more human than _you_ are."

"Are you insinuating that I am _not_ human? At least I have a more average skin tone, if not a little on the red side."

The man, blue thing, pushed himself off the ground in a very fluid, not-human movement. He stopped only to dust himself off and gave the larger if the two assailants a pitying look. "Did you have to break his nose?"

"Did you _have_ to attack me?"

"Yes, we did," the man replied, meeting his gaze once more. Anthony made note of the red eyes and tucked it away for later, he really was not up for this tonight.

"Although," the man continued, "this seems more complicated than we initially thought."

"Says the blue man," Anthony pointed out.

The man's eyes narrowed at this. "I may be blue, but I am still very much alive, and human."

"Again with the implication that I am not—"

"You are heartless," he interrupted, and was joined by the tall blond man, still covering a blood spattered nose.

Anthony scowled his best scowl at them. He knew he wasn't the _feeling_ type, but no one was allowed to call him heartless. He helped people, did he not?

"Very amusing. I see, you must have witnessed my method and assumed it meant I was a heartless bastard. Well, think what you will, because I care very little for a criminal's thoughts." He paused and added, "unless I am inspecting you, in which case your thoughts become much more meaningful."

Both men looked at one another with the first hints of confusion and doubt. The blue man looked almost pained as he turned back and looked him over.

"You do not know, then?"

"_What_?" He snarled. Anthony was beyond tired, why didn't they just go away?

"I thought you..." the blue man trailed off. "Why do you hide behind your coat, then?"

"Hide behind my...? I wasn't, it's a cold night and..."

_Why _have_ I been clutching it to my chest this entire time?_ _Since when did I wrap it around me like some sort of shield... the ache, oh yes, that ache in my chest. But, that has long since subsided..._

The man was speaking again, "I did not mean that you are metaphorically heartless," and blue fingers firmly pulled his coat open. "I meant literally."

Anthony looked down and promptly remembered the claw, the memory so vivid he grunted in pain. Only, he didn't feel a thing now, he was numb, and that might have something to do with the hole in his chest where his heart should be.

"_Heartless_..." He muttered, his hands ghosting over the hole in disbelief.

The man in front of him grabbed and pulled his hands away from the wound, saying, "I sensed it, that is why we are here. I believe we are meant to help you."

"Sensed it..."

Things were starting to click into place in the turbulence of Anthony's mind.

How did he escape? _Did_ he escape at all? If not, why was he let go?

"My name is Loki Odinson, and the man who's nose you broke is my brother, Thor."

"You knew I would be here," Anthony stated, rather than asked.

Loki looked irked at the lack of introduction and answered sharply, "Well, yes."

Anthony lifted his head and looked into those red eyes. Something new, something fascinating, something highly desired by anyone with a fit curiosity. A someone who sensed him, and who found him. The last piece clicked into place, and Anthony smiled bitterly.

Here was the _prize_, and he was only the...

"Bait."


End file.
